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“Is this about a boy? Do you have a crush?” I’m so confused. Does she want me to help her put on makeup for someone? Jane is almost as awkward as me when it comes to boys. Out of everybody, I’m the last person she should be getting advice from.
Then again, I’m sort-of dating five different men, so maybe I’m the first person she should go to?
Ugh. Relationships are so confusing.
Jane gives me an odd look as she gestures for me to sit on the bed.
“No, not a crush.” Her cheeks pinken. “Sorry about the whole, erm, penis thing.”
“So, what is this about?” I eye her quizzically, and she begins to fidget, shifting from foot to foot, her eyes darting in every direction rapidly.
She seems to come to some sort of internal decision and heaves out an elongated breath, her shoulders drooping in the process. Then, without preamble, she sits down beside me on the bed, grabs my wrist gingerly, and tugs up the sleeve of my dress.
Unveiling my scarred arm.
My breath hitches, and a heady combination of shame and embarrassment barrages me. I want to pull my arm back and hide. I want to disappear into my bed and never return. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
But Jane doesn’t look surprised as she begins dabbing her concealer on my scars, hiding them from view.
“What?” I whisper, a thousand questions percolating in my mind.
How did she know?
Why is she doing this?
What is going on?
But words fail me as I watch my friend painstakingly apply the foundation to my mottled flesh. Her cool gaze never strays from the puckered scars, even as her lips thin marginally, compressing into a perfectly straight line.
“I wasn’t in the best place mentally when I was in middle school,” she confesses after a moment of silence. “I didn’t have a lot of friends, and I was constantly picked on for my weight.” Her frown deepens, causing creases to form around her eyes. “I learned about this trick in eighth grade, when my dress for the eighth-grade dance was strapless.”
“Jane…” Emotions slice at me with the keenness of a razor blade, but I don’t know which one to focus on first. Horror? Sympathy? Pity? Understanding? It’s the latter I grab ahold of and bring to the forefront of my mind. I hate when people pity me, and I imagine Jane does as well. Besides, I quickly realize what I feel for her isn’t pity or anything like that.
It’s…pain. Pain that my friend has suffered for so long. Pain that I wasn’t aware of her situation sooner. Pain that, even now, I don’t know how to help her, mainly because I don’t know how to help myself.
Depression is a vicious cycle of ups and downs, highs and lows, and I’m not sure if anyone can ever truly break free of it. It’s the silent killer, constricting around your neck like rope as you just wait for the ground to fall out from underneath you.
“It was a long time ago, and I’m doing better.” A timid smile caresses her lips, though I notice it doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re wide and haunted, full of ghosts I can’t even begin to name, let alone understand. “I’m at the top of my class, I have three amazing friends, I’ve been talking to this cute boy in my math class…” Pink darkens her cheeks, and she begins to dab at my scars with more pressure.
“So you do have a crush?” I sound more constipated than teasing—my vocal cords restricted after hearing her confession—but I’m grateful when my voice doesn’t crack completely.
I want to talk to Jane more about her past and ask if she’s okay, if she’s doing better, if she’s still hurting herself, but I have a feeling my questions might not be welcomed. She already shared more with me than I would’ve expected her to, and warmth fills me at how easily she placed her trust in me. I feel closer to her than ever before.
She knows about my pain, and now, I know about hers.
Maybe we can teach each other how to heal.
Maybe just knowing we’re not alone in this battle is help enough.
God, my heart aches for her. All I want to do is give her a big hug and promise everything will be all right. Tell her she’s not alone. Remind her that she has us.
Then again, I’m not sure I’d be able to hear those words, if the situations were reversed and she said that to me.
Jane happily accepts the subject change, her blush darkening, turning an almost crimson color on her alabaster skin. “His name is Matty, and he’s a junior. But he’s super smart and cute and ugh.” She groans and finally glances up at me through her fringe of lashes. “I sound like a loser with an epic crush, don’t I?”
“Not a loser,” I tell her fiercely. “Never a loser.”
She bites her lips and offers me another tenuous smile before focusing once more on her work.
